Little by Little
by iolre
Summary: Now that John and Sherlock have left Asylum, they're forced to face the real world, a reality Sherlock has never faced unaided and one John is resigned to. As they fight to find a balance between the life they have to live to survive and each other, they battle to come to terms with their pasts so they can build a future together. Part 2 of 'A Lonely September' series.
1. Don't You Be Afraid

A/N: Annnd here's part 2 for the 'A Lonely September' series. Hope it was worth the wait! While AO3 has a warning system, this place doesn't. So warnings for pretty much everything mentioned in part 1 will be brought up in part 2 (cutting, drug abuse, suicide attempts, domestic violence, flashbacks, sexual assault, the whole enchilada) but there will be more fluffy bits and sweet bits and angsty bits. So.

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Sherlock pushed open the downstairs door, striding into the front room and glancing briefly at the stairs before starting up them. John followed, two bags containing his more personal possessions in his hands. Mycroft had gathered all of Sherlock's belongings from Asylum and had assured John that he would collect what he left at Harry's, so the two packed things that John didn't want to leave to Mycroft's men. Not that there was much. Most of it was still packed, because John had gotten little accomplished in his time away from Sherlock.

Sherlock had helped John pack what was left, twitching every time the doctor's fingers brushed his. He was certain John had noticed his reaction, for the doctor seemed to be doing it deliberately, the caresses turning nearly fond as Sherlock stopped reacting to the sensation of John's skin against his. Sherlock had been both proud of the progress and despaired of its necessity.

"Welcome to 221B, John," he said, opening the door to what would be their flat. He was still trying to wrap his mind around the concept. It had been different at Asylum, when it had been just a room. There was some noise on the bottom floor and a kind-looking elderly woman bustled in, walking quickly over to Sherlock and kissing him on each cheek. She walked over to John and gave him the same greeting, twittering pleasantly and ignoring John's startled look. "Ahh, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock smiled at her, a fond look on his face. Mrs. Hudson was an old friend of his, someone he had known for a long time. She had done him quite the favor, allowing him to rent 221B.

The quiet taxi ride to Baker Street had done wonders for Sherlock's fragile psyche, John's undemanding presence next to him allowing him time to put his thoughts back in order. As a result he was nearly back to normal - as normal as he got, anyway. "Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson beamed, her eyes warm. "You've grown!"

"It has been a few years," he reminded her, a faint crinkle at the corner of his eyes when he smiled. They had met accidentally, when Sherlock had gotten her husband thrown out and convicted of drug offenses after he had been caught beating her. Mrs. Hudson had taken care of Sherlock for a few months in return, and offered him a place to live. He had refused, of course, but she had made him promise to keep the offer close. She checked in on him occasionally, and had been the one to notify Mycroft when Sherlock originally went missing.

She turned to beam at John, the same sunny smile she had directed in Sherlock's direction. "There's a bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

"John, take whichever you feel more comfortable in," Sherlock instructed, untying his scarf and slipping off his wool jacket to hang it near the door. He was still dressed in his impeccable suit, slightly wrinkled though it was. "Although." Pausing, he noted that the downstairs door was slightly ajar. Walking forward, he nudged it until it swung open. "Ugh. Mycroft the meddler. It seems you will have to make do with the upstairs bedroom. Unless, of course, you wish to move the belongings in here upstairs."

"Nah, the upstairs works for me," John said easily. He gathered his luggage and took it upstairs, Sherlock watching him all the while. It felt strange when John was out of his range of vision, like there were ants crawling underneath Sherlock's skin. It was a wholly unpleasant sensation and Sherlock did his best to shove it out of his mind. Especially when he turned slightly and saw Mrs. Hudson watching him, a twinkle in her eye.

"Ah, young love," she said with a mournful sigh, going into the kitchen and turning on the kettle. "I'll make you some tea and biscuits. Just this time. I'm not your housekeeper." Tsking fondly, she moved about in the kitchen with a quiet confidence, having two steaming cups of tea ready just as John returned to the living room.

Even Sherlock could admit that Mycroft had done a relatively good job replicating the atmosphere of their room at Asylum. A sofa took up a large portion of the space, but there were two armchairs facing each other by the fire, a large table in their kitchen, and bookshelves lining the walls, already stuffed to the brim with Sherlock's books. The ones John had read, Sherlock noted with interest, were gently placed on a separate shelf, likely so the doctor could find them again if he so desired.

Once they were settled in their armchairs, steaming mugs of tea clutched gratefully in hand, Sherlock stared at the fireplace. The silence continued, and he shifted slightly, uncomfortable. Gone was the comfortable, open vulnerability that had characterized their earlier actions. Sherlock watched John track the landlady as she smiled fondly at them one last time and left the flat, closing the door behind her. The 'click' echoed through the quiet sitting room.

"So," John said awkwardly, clearing his throat. Sherlock tilted his head the slightest amount, eyes flickering to his - flatmate. While he had had flatmates in the past, had dealt with several at Asylum, none of them had been as important as John. It was terrifying, the newness of the whole situation leaving Sherlock a bit raw around the edges. He had never desired an actual relationship with someone, much less contemplated what such a relationship could entail. His previous relationships had been purely physical, mostly when he needed drugs or money. No one had ever drawn him quite like John had.

John shifted in his chair, rearranging himself. Sherlock moved so that he could easily see John out of the corner of his eye without having to tilt his head. There was something in John's eyes that made him nervous. "What are you thinking?" Sherlock asked, his voice echoing in the stark quiet of the room.

"How awkward it is to sit here and not touch you," John answered. "How quickly we went from - well, how quickly everything happened."

"Do you regret it?" Sherlock inquired, trying to not let the sinking feeling in his stomach show on his face.

"No," John said hastily, nearly cutting off Sherlock's last word. "Not at all." The relief Sherlock felt was nearly palpable, reducing his limbs to mush for a few brief seconds. "You said you solved a case?" John asked hesitantly. Sherlock nodded. "Can you tell me about it?"

Outlining both the details and solution of the case was easy, for Sherlock's memory meant he forgot very little. John listened intently, a half-smile on his face when Sherlock concluded with how Lestrade had texted him about catching the killer. For some reason Sherlock decided to leave out his brother's connection with the detective inspector. Not that he cared if John knew Mycroft's business, but he was also aware that Mycroft knew quite a few details of Sherlock's unsavory history and at least part of him was afraid of Mycroft dirtying whatever they were building with such unnecessary stories.

"Brilliant," John said, grinning at Sherlock. Sherlock couldn't help the slight smile that curved his lips, although he fought to keep his face impassive. Something warm swelled up rapidly in Sherlock's chest, nearly tilting him off of the chair in its enthusiasm. They sat for a few moments, watching each other. John reached out and gently clasped Sherlock's hand, squeezing it once Sherlock relaxed and stopped tensing. "Do you regret it?" John asked suddenly, his eyes searching Sherlock's as if he was looking for something.

"No," Sherlock answered immediately. "What is there to regret?" That startled a soft chuckle out of the doctor. Sherlock narrowed his eyes; the question had been serious. John seemed to catch on and his expression shifted, becoming fond and cautious at the same time. It made something flutter unpleasantly in Sherlock's stomach.

"This - this isn't going to be easy, Sherlock," John said, each word carefully measured. "If we do - whatever we're going to do, which I have no idea what is - if we do that, there's…" he trailed off, struggling to find the words he wanted. Sherlock watched intently, eyes narrowed as he focused on the minute twitches of John's face. "Sherlock, you told me you haven't done anything like this before, right?"

"Like what?" Sherlock inquired, lifting an eyebrow. "You're not making any sense. It's almost as if someone never taught you how to form a full sentence. I am not a mind reader, John."

"Could've fooled me," John muttered, drawing a snort from the taller man. "I don't even know what we're doing."

"That's not helping," Sherlock admonished.

"A relationship," John said finally. "That's what we're doing. If that's what you want."

"Is that what you want?" Tilting his head slightly, Sherlock continued his scrutiny. John's face was unshielded as he allowed a warmth to come to his face, a smile curving his lips. Sherlock stared at him, momentarily captured by how wonderful John looked when he was unguarded and happy. It was Sherlock that did that, the thought of Sherlock. He fought down a shiver as he felt a spark in his groin. Inappropriate.

"Yes."

"Then yes." John looked pleased for a moment and then the expression was overshadowed by something else, something that clouded the happiness and took John's sun away. Sherlock frowned, uncertain. Wasn't that what John wanted? Sherlock to say yes?

"Sherlock," John started, his voice tender. Sherlock scowled at the floor. He had done what John wanted, right? He wanted Sherlock to say yes. Sherlock wanted to make him happy. Why was John looking worried? Why was he looking at Sherlock that way? "Sherlock, why did you say yes?"

"Because it's what you want." Sherlock looked at him, vaguely puzzled. "Isn't that what a relationship is? Doing something to make the other person happy?" He watched in confusion as John's expression shifted, sad, wistful, and happy in turns. There were flashes of other emotions that Sherlock could neither name nor understand. "I don't understand." He frowned. "Although happiness in itself is a ludicrous concept." John's lips quirked into a faint smile and Sherlock adjusted his position in the chair. The knot in his middle seemed to loosen a bit. If John was amused, then it couldn't be that bad. Hopefully.

"Sherlock, a relationship - a relationship is a partnership. The end goal is for both of us to be happy." John moved so that he was facing Sherlock fully, his eyes soft as they settled on Sherlock's face.

"That's ridiculous," Sherlock said flatly. "Unattainable." John lifted an eyebrow, seemingly skeptical.

"What do you mean?" the military doctor asked, a furrow appearing between his eyes as he frowned. Sherlock rolled his eyes, exasperated.

"When one party is incapable of such a tawdry emotion, it becomes their duty to make their partner as - 'happy' as possible, correct?"

"No, because that's not - Sherlock, are you saying you're not capable of being happy?"

"Stating a fact is not saying, John."

"Sherlock," John said, something hitching in the way he said Sherlock's name. Sherlock glared fiercely at his flatmate, trying to stomp down his flight reaction from leading him down the stairs and out of the flat. He still did not understand what he had done wrong and wanted the world to swallow him alive. If this was what a relationship entailed, he was going to have to reevaluate how much he was willing to do for John. "Sherlock, look at me."

"No." Withdrawing his hand from John's, Sherlock pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his long arms around them. His chin sank down onto his knees and he scowled at midair, his sharp eyes glaring at the far wall. He didn't like the vulnerability, nor did he like the feeling that sliced through his chest at John's worried expression. They had been in 221B less than a day and already Sherlock had messed something up. He scowled viciously at the little voice in his head that asked him how he had expected to do any better. John deserved someone better than him, someone who could cater to John's needs and wasn't as damaged.

John stayed silent for a few moments, increasing Sherlock's agitation until he could no longer sit still but had no idea what to do to release his emotions. He felt like a child again, all restless energy without a proper outlet. It had not taken long before he had resorted to cutting, and then to drugs, sometimes both at once. Anything and everything to expel the energy that sought to destroy him, to pull him apart. Now he had neither. Just someone that was vital to his existence, and he had disappointed that vital element.

Sherlock was certain that John would be disappointed if he hurt himself. He had long played John's reaction to seeing his scars over and over in his mind, the fear mingling with the horror for what the white marks stood for. Yet without something to replace the familiar, tension-relieving movements, Sherlock was at a loss for what to do. His fingers vibrated with the need to reach for razor or syringe, something, anything that would make the itching sensation crawling over his body go away.

"I'm going to touch you." The words were barely out of John's mouth before his hands were on Sherlock, nudging him up and gently accompanying him to the couch where he was quickly sat down. He glared up at John, who was studying him intently. "Did - is there anything I should be worried about on the couch?"

"I don't need to be coddled, John," Sherlock snarled. He was not an infant. He could control his transport and the reactions provoked by memories of Moriarty's hands on his flesh.

"Sherlock, you got upset when I ordered you around." John said quietly. "It stands to reason that you'll have other triggers. I want to try and avoid them, but you have to tell me what they are."

"They're not a problem." Sherlock scowled at the shorter man, ignoring the fact that he had to look at him to do so. He was supposed to be ignoring John, figuring out the puzzle that had presented itself, not getting distracted. He needed to figure out how to get John off of the train of thought.

"Sherlock," John said.

"Stop," Sherlock snapped. "I can't - I can't."

"You can't what?"

Sherlock bolted up from the couch, throwing his arms up in the air and pacing back and forth, barely a foot from the army doctor. "I can't. I can't do what I want to do. I have nothing else. I don't know what to do."

"You're not making a bit of sense," John said, his tone gentle in its concern. Sherlock allowed the words to wash over his skin, wore John's concern until it seeped in through the cracks in his armour, meeting with his agitation and exploding into volatile fury.

"It's your fault," Sherlock hissed, his finger pointed accusingly in John's direction. All this energy, all the thoughts, it was John's fault. John should deal with it and make it better. Not that Sherlock had the slightest idea how to go about doing so.

"What's my fault?" John asked, puzzled.

"Are you trying to be deliberately obtuse?" Sherlock injected as much sarcasm into his tone as possible.

"Sherlock, that's – bit not good," John muttered, and Sherlock saw with the smallest amount of vindication that he had hit his target and injured the other man. He stalked back and forth across the carpet, trying to run out his energy as he wove a path around the furniture.

"I can't - I don't." Sherlock continued talking to himself underneath his breath, some words barely making sense as they tumbled chaotically from his lips. His hands flew about in the air as he tried vainly to draw the words out of his mind that did not want to come. John continued to watch him, his distress so palpable that Sherlock could nearly taste it. "I need something."

"What do you need?" John asked quietly, his voice calm.

"Something," Sherlock said forcibly, his voice quieting as he thought through where his dealers might be. While cutting was the most practical option, it would be harder to hide from John. What else could John expect? Just because Sherlock left Asylum didn't mean he was a functioning, normal human being. What had he been thinking? Groaning, he sank onto the sofa, curling into a ball and stubbornly putting his back towards the army doctor.

"Sit up," John murmured, his hands a careful pressure on Sherlock's body as he sought to maneuver him into a sitting position. Reluctantly Sherlock obeyed, his body rigid and thighs pressed tightly together. Sherlock felt the shift in the (overly large) sofa as John settled not far from him, feet not far from Sherlock's thighs. "I'm going to try something, okay? If it makes you uncomfortable at all, let me know."

Sherlock scowled silently at the floor. It was a weak protest, and he knew it, but he put it up regardless. He could feel John's gaze on his body, although it didn't feel overtly sexual. More like assessing. He could not stop the shiver that ran down his spine, nor could he conceal it from John. "Move for a second, yeah?" John murmured, indicating for Sherlock to move a bit farther down the couch. Reluctantly he obeyed, careful to stay as far away from John as possible.

He felt John settle on the sofa, and noticed that John had removed his shoes. It was endearing, in a way, for Sherlock had yet to remove his. John moved again, kneeling in front of Sherlock. The taller man felt gentle hands on his feet, untying and taking off his shoes. "Go change into something comfortable," John said quietly. Ignoring the hint of electricity and arousal that slid down his spine at John's touch, Sherlock rose and stalked pointedly around the doctor and into the bedroom. Why was he listening to John? He had no idea.

Regardless of his confusion, he shed his suit and dressed quickly in his pyjamas, somewhat pleased to see that Mycroft had instructed his people to put away Sherlock's things in his draws. He left off his dressing gown, although he did hook it on his armchair as he walked back into the main room. John was just coming down the stairs, and something softened in his eyes as he saw Sherlock.

While Sherlock could not ignore the energy sizzling under his skin, he also could not deny that he relaxed when John smiled at him. John wouldn't hurt him. He would take care of him. Sherlock trusted John, after all. His belief in John and his proximity wasn't enough to completely sate the rampant agitation that had overwhelmed him earlier or to slow his mind to a stop, but it was a start, dampening it to a low buzz just out of his reach. John walked over carefully, giving Sherlock time to adjust to his proximity. Despite that Sherlock could not help but take a step back, his body tensing up.

"Take a deep breath," John encouraged, careful to keep his tone in check, not wanting to overwhelm Sherlock. Sherlock found himself obeying without intentionally doing so, his chest expanding as he took in the requisite breath. John's smile widened, and Sherlock stared, captivated by the expression and its meaning. "Good," John praised. He seemed a bit uncomfortable, as if what he was doing was awkward, and he sat down, his back to the edge of the sofa and his legs parted. Next his hands were on Sherlock's shoulders, guiding him backwards and into the V of his legs.

Sherlock tensed immediately, his muscles tightening as fear surged through his body. "It's nothing like that," John murmured immediately, his hands gentle on Sherlock's shoulders, neither pressuring nor insisting. "Just a cuddle."

"A moronic human custom," Sherlock muttered, although he could not deny that he was mildly intrigued by the idea. It was something he had never done. It could be something in their - was it proper to call it a relationship after the unresolved debate? It could be something he could share with John without some semblance of baggage. John frowned slightly, watching the emotions play across Sherlock's face. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, his 'well-what-are-you-waiting-for' face in complete control.

John snorted and shook his head slightly before cautiously pulling on Sherlock's shoulders and arranging him so that he was laying on John's chest, the back of his head tucked in the crook of John's shoulder. The military doctor wrapped his arms around Sherlock's chest, ensuring that his grip wasn't so tight that Sherlock couldn't break out if he needed to. Sherlock closed his eyes as soon as John had settled, assimilating the myriad of sensations that were assaulting him.

It was an odd sensation, being held by another person. Sherlock had been expecting plebeian emotions - comfort, caring - sentiment in a nutshell. While they were there, they were nearly overpowered by other feelings rolling through his body, darker things that Sherlock was unable to name. He wanted to break free, wanted to sink deeper, wanted to meld into John until he was indistinguishable. He wanted to - Sherlock nearly cringed at the banality of it all - he wanted to own John, to make it clear to the rest of the world that John was his.

It was irritating and so very confusing and Sherlock honestly could have done without all of it. What startled him the most was how much the itching, craving sensation had faded. He felt oddly anchored by John's presence, shielded by the strong, tanned arms wrapped around his chest. Shifting awkwardly John leaned down to press his lips against Sherlock's temple, a soft, taunting mockery of a kiss (in Sherlock's opinion, anyway). Yet it felt right. "Better?" John murmured, his words floating across Sherlock's skin and sending shivers down his spine.

"Better," Sherlock admitted, his eyes still closed. The maelstrom of emotions had calmed, leaving him feeling oddly peaceful. He was still secure, so no matter how far his mind drifted, it had a home to return to. He moved with John's chest, up and down as he inhaled and exhaled. Their breathing patterns mingled and matched, two becoming one. It was strangely peaceful and Sherlock felt himself slipping off to sleep.

It was like the night he had a panic attack, the night the thought that John might care first crossed his mind. His body had seized up and reacted violently, shoving all rationality from its domain and allowing chaos to wreak havoc. "Sherlock?" John asked tentatively, and Sherlock realized that he had grasped John's arm and was digging his fingers in. Flinching he released his grip and attempted to sit up. He was oddly disappointed when John did not stop him, although he made no movement to leave the warm, safe V of John's legs.

"Sorry," Sherlock mumbled, feeling oddly unsettled by the realisation of how much being so close to John had affected him. He wanted more, he wanted less. Instead he stayed where he was, torn between moving away and leaning back. His eyes were clenched tightly shut. They flew open when he felt John shift. He turned, startled to realize that John was mere centimetres away, eyes cautious as they took in Sherlock's appearance.

Sherlock's gaze flickered from John's eyes to his lips as John leaned in. Sherlock quickly figured out what was coming, anticipation forming a snarl in his stomach that tensed as John got closer. John's lips pressed against his as soft as a feather, cautious, testing. Sherlock hummed eagerly, pressing back at once. Moriarty's taunting words flashed through his mind and Sherlock felt the ghost of pressure on his abdomen, sliding down his belly, his mind flickering back to that night on the sofa.

He drew back with a hiss, body involuntarily sliding off of the sofa and falling on the floor with a thud as he curled into a defensive posture. His heart was racing and felt like it was going to pound its way out of his chest. Blood surged through his veins as he tried to calm the racing onslaught of imagery, haunted by Moriarty and other's lips all over his body. The mocking words from when Moriarty had first met him at Asylum rang through his mind, the images such words had provoked terrifying as he fought down rising arousal. He wanted John to touch him, he wanted John to caress him, to kiss him, but any time Sherlock thought more about it, it was like Moriarty was there, like it was Moriarty's hands sliding on his skin, Moriarty's mouth against his.

It was then that Sherlock snapped back to reality and realized John was murmuring 'sorry, I'm so sorry' over and over again, a litany, a prayer as it flowed from his mouth. "What are you sorry for?" Sherlock asked, feeling numb, detached from his body and the situation. It was unsettling; he craved to be back near John, if only to have the confusing comfort that had been offered mere moments before.

"I - I kissed you," John said with a slight frown. "You weren't ready. I shouldn't have pushed you."

Ignoring the ridiculousness of that statement, Sherlock tentatively moved his limbs, testing them to see if he had regained control now that his heart had calmed. "Stay still," he ordered quietly, examining John. John fell silent, unmoving, watching the movements of Sherlock's eyes with mild interest. Cautiously Sherlock slid back onto the couch, inching closer to whatever-John-was, spreading out until he was curled up on his side, his shoulder on John's chest, his head tucked underneath John's neck.

Dissatisfied, Sherlock shifted so that he was practically laying on the doctor. The height difference, thankfully, ensured that their groins were not slotted together (Sherlock was partially afraid of the sensory overload, for the memories associated with that part of his mind were likely to be bad). His mouth was against John's neck, allowing him to press soft kisses to the tender skin if he so desired. One arm he wrapped gently around John's waist, the other clutching the soft fabric of John's shirt. He felt the warmth of John's groin against his stomach, and it wasn't a wholly uncomfortable feeling - just different.

Never could Sherlock have ever imagined that he would do something like it, cuddling with another person. His parents had never been particularly physically affectionate, and any prior attempt at a relationship had either been met with disdain (on one part or another) or physical violence. Then Moriarty had sunk his fangs in and Sherlock had been in serious trouble. He had no idea that - Sherlock struggled vainly to put what was happening into words, only to be resigned when he failed. He had no idea that anything could be as lovely as what was happening now, curled up against warm, steady John, breathing synchronised as they just existed.

He felt John tentatively sift a hand through his curls, testing their strength and resiliency as he tenderly ran the soft pads of his fingers over Sherlock's scalp. Sherlock tensed briefly, reminded of Moriarty's brutal hand in his hair, yanking him about, but the contrast was enough to restore him to some semblance of calm, the gentle caresses sending shivers through his body. It was strangely intimate, the soft, repetitive motion, and Sherlock felt a rumble in his chest expressing his contentment with the situation. If he had been a cat, he would have been purring. He couldn't help but scowl. It was predictable and vain and so full of sentiment that it was disgusting.

Yet he wanted more. Without realizing it he nuzzled John's neck, pushing his head further into John's hand. He felt like he was drowning in John, in his smell and warmth, in the comfort and safety that he offered. Sherlock had never felt the peculiar mix of emotions threatening to drown him, and he was willingly succumbing to their potent spell. "What are you feeling?" John spoke softly, his words gently sinking into Sherlock's awareness.

"I don't know," Sherlock responded, so quietly that he was not certain John heard him. He shifted slightly, tightening his grasp on the man underneath him as if John was going to run away. "Warm. Safe. Drowning." The vulnerability of the position wasn't entirely comfortable, but Sherlock had fared worse when he had gone to John after John had left him.

The feelings left him not wanting to ever move, not wanting to give up the warmth that seemed to invade his very core and radiate outward. "Those are good," John murmured. "Except for the drowning, but we'll work on that. Sherlock, why don't you think you can be happy?"

Sherlock twitched slightly in surprise, although his body was too relaxed to put up more of a protest. It was a comfortable, sleepy-tense that Sherlock found oddly reassuring. He was alert, aware of the discomfort of the topic, but he felt like he was melting into a puddle of goo. Although he was the one on top of John, he felt like John was his blanket, keeping him warm and protecting him from the real world. "It's what I've always been told."

"By who?" John craned his head to look down at Sherlock, drawing a tired protest from the taller man. He settled, although Sherlock could feel the scowl on his face. He half-shrugged, dismissive.

"Everyone," he said offhandedly.

"How about we not think about what everyone else said?" John said firmly. His unoccupied hand draped over Sherlock's lower back. Sherlock thought over what he said and frowned.

"I don't understand." He hated to admit his weak point, but sentiment was not something he could ignore and expect to keep John's happiness.

"Look." John's thumb started rubbing gentle little circles into Sherlock's skin through the fabric of his shirt. Sherlock shivered under the sensation, the onslaught uncomfortable but in a good way. He could handle it. "I'm not everyone, right? I'm me." John's hand in Sherlock's hair paused in its ministrations enough for John to gently press his lips and nose to the top of the curly head. "I want to try and make it right. I want a chance to make you happy, or to give it my best shot. Maybe things will be different with us. Just the two of us." He paused. "If that's what you want, of course."

"I'm not very good at this," Sherlock said grudgingly. His mind was whirling with the implications of John's words. John wanted to - try what? What did that mean? What did he expect of Sherlock? Was there some kind of special significance to ascribe to John's words, or was this something normal that one normal person did for another? There were so many layers and potential hidden meanings and Sherlock's mind could not sort through all of them fast enough.

"Stop thinking," John advised quietly, his hand in Sherlock's hair returning to its caressing cadence. "Sherlock, what does a relationship mean to you?"

"Making someone else happy," Sherlock answered immediately, at first confident in his answer. Part of him was hesitant as soon as the words left his mouth - John had been dissatisfied with the answer last time; what would he think this time?

"That's part of it, yeah," John agreed, arm tightening the smallest amount over Sherlock's hips. "People enter relationships because they want to be happy with the other person. They want to share things and grow close." He must have felt Sherlock tense, because he stopped talking and cuddled him instead (was that a verb? Sherlock had no idea and found he did not really care as to whether or not it was). "I want that with you. I want to give it a try. Sherlock, you told me when you came to me that you needed me. I need you. I want this. I just want to know whether or not you want it too."

"I don't know what it means," Sherlock said harshly, the words escaping faster than he had intended. "I don't know what you expect of me."

"Nothing," John said just as quickly. "I just want you to be yourself."

"You can't possibly be satisfied with that," Sherlock said dismissively, tossing the idea aside, metaphorical though it was.

"Why not?" John inquired mildly, thumb caressing Sherlock's skin in gentle circles. "I like you as you are."

Sherlock's derisive snort was his answer and John sighed. "We'll work on it, then," he told the curly-haired man. "Do you want to move?" Sherlock growled and curled closer, feeling oddly possessive. He had no idea where the impulses were coming from but did not have the energy to fight them, tired as he was. Being vulnerable and listening to John's questions and truly trying to understand what John meant took a toll on Sherlock's mentality, and all he wanted to do was sleep. It had been a long, difficult day and he was tired of exposing all of his emotions.

He drifted off to sleep, still held in John's arms.

-

John was still asleep when Sherlock woke up some hours later, still sprawled on the sofa, their limbs still twined together. He blinked, momentarily dazed, and then lifted his head, carefully supporting himself with a hand on the sofa instead of on John. John looked - younger, while asleep, his face relaxed and the tension at least temporarily gone from his muscles. Sherlock felt the irrational impulse to - do something, like hug him, and instead carefully removed himself from John's proximity on the sofa.

Yesterday felt like it had been one long nightmare and Sherlock still felt a bit raw around the edges, his psyche fragile from being poked and prodded. Today he had a purpose. Walking into his bedroom, he surveyed it carefully, noting with pleasure the various science equipment that Mycroft had bought for just this purpose. He would never admit it, but Mycroft did know him rather well.

He left his door open, able to see John asleep on the sofa if he craned his head just so. Which he did every twenty or thirty seconds, ensuring that the army doctor was still there, asleep, and safe. Scowling at the wall in protest of his inanity, he grabbed the microscope and several test tube vials and took them out to the kitchen. He made a few more trips, setting up various science equipment on the table and counters that made up their small nook.

The next step was problematic, for he needed some proper materials for his experiments. Mycroft had been his supplier at Asylum, and since Mrs. Hudson had not panicked when she got the biscuits, or made the tea, it seemed unlikely that any of his previous experiments had survived his week-long blackout. He needed a new supplier, preferably one Mycroft didn't know about. He also needed to talk to Lestrade, see if there was any more cases for him to get his hands on.

Mycroft's past association with the policeman likely meant that he would continue to come to him, but Sherlock needed to cement the cooperation, and continue it. His trust fund, under Mycroft's control due to his situation, would be allocated funds to support them at 221B Baker Street, but he felt that John would want to at least pretend to contribute to the situation. Even if, to John, it wasn't pretending. Sherlock could graciously allow him to buy the groceries, then. He could utilise the brain power for more important things.

He settled in the kitchen, careful to angle his body so that he could see John at all times. It was frustrating, the prickling worry that seemed to cover his skin whenever John was out of his sight for more than ten seconds. If Sherlock was going to go take care of his business, get a supplier and steady work, he would need to go on his own. Yet the strange, unsettling emotions seemed determined to wreck any chance of that actually happening.

Letting out a huff of frustration, he cringed when he saw John twitch on the couch. Sherlock made the mistake of looking in John's direction (for what felt like the hundredth time in the past twenty seconds, when in reality it was the third in the past seventeen point two). He was captivated by the way John yawned, sleek muscles rippling under tanned skin, a hand coming up to rub at his eyes as he stretched on the sofa. It wasn't long before John seemed to realize that Sherlock wasn't with him and looked around.

Then he saw Sherlock at the kitchen table, and the smile that he gave Sherlock would have sent him crashing to the ground if he had not already been sitting. It was warmth and happiness and comfort and desire and - Sherlock just stared, his mouth dropping slightly open. "There you are," John mumbled, his voice heavy with sleep.

"Go back to sleep, John," Sherlock said after several long minutes. It was all he could think of to say, and it wasn't enough. It would have to do.

"Kay," John agreed, his eyes fluttering closed and his breathing evening out. Within moments he was asleep, and Sherlock just stared. He was mildly envious; sleep rarely came that easy to him and often it came not at all. The fact he had fallen asleep on John the previous night was from a combination of emotional and physical exhaustion and unlikely (he hoped) to happen again in the near future.

It was strange. Sherlock was sitting at the table, physically focused on the various tubes and vials in front of him, yet his mind kept fluttering back to the man asleep on the sofa. It was wholly unnerving and Sherlock wished that the entire thing would go away. At the same time, he wished it would never leave. Even asleep John made Sherlock feel better, the warmth of his presence soothing some of the scattered cravings that Sherlock was still dealing with.

The - 'cuddles', as John put it in the disgusting colloquialism - had done wonders to ease his jitters, but they had not eradicated them completely. There was a lot of emotion that Sherlock could not identify, nor could he scrape it into its proper box to dispose of it or at least lessen its hold over him. Instead he was left muddling through a puddle of sentiment that seemed to continue expanding whenever he glanced away from it for a single second.

John cared about Sherlock, and Sherlock cared about John. That was going to have to be enough for now. He could only hope that they could sort through the rest in due time and that John would not become too horrified by his eventual shortcomings. Shaking his head slightly, he turned back to arranging his science equipment, careful to glance John's direction every thirty seconds on the dot. While he could not identify the warmth that spread throughout him every time he was reassured of the doctor's presence, it didn't mean he was going to ignore it. He was nearly positive it was a good thing.


	2. We Can Always Talk About It

A/N: For some reason this was one of my favorite chapters to write. I wonder what that says about me...we have some angst, hurt/comfort, and potential drug use. Next chapter in two weeks!

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John stretched as he came into awareness, blinking the sleep out of his eyes and glancing around. It took him less than twenty seconds to realize that he was now alone and covered in a blanket that had not been around prior to the two falling asleep. "Sherlock?" he said tenuously, pushing himself up on his elbows to look around. The curly head lifted itself up from the microscope he was peering at.

"You sleep too much," Sherlock said absentmindedly, turning his focus back to the eyepieces in front of him.

"Good morning to you too," John chuckled, oddly relieved to see him still in the flat. Part of him had expected, after the events of yesterday, to find that Sherlock had given up and fled far away.

"I do not see the point in exchanging pleasantries," Sherlock muttered, shifting slightly in his chair. There was something unusual to the motion, some tension that hung in the air and that seemed to colour all of Sherlock's movements dark. The taller man glanced John's way and then seemed to shake himself and turn his focus more completely back to the task in front of him.

"You're back to normal." John smiled, some of his worries leaving him at that realisation. Yesterday - yesterday had been nearly as difficult as coping with the last night in the hospital, but in a different way. Sherlock had been so vulnerable and open and John had felt so much shame and guilt intermingling and then they'd ended up on the couch and John had just prayed that he wouldn't get an erection and ruin it all.

"Get dressed," Sherlock ordered. "We're going out."

"Definitely back to normal," John said with a snort, shaking his head as he stood up. He cracked the kinks out of his back and stretched, pleased to note stretched, warm muscles. He had not been asleep much longer than Sherlock, then, no matter what he said. Regardless he trotted upstairs, grabbing a change of clothes before disappearing into the bathroom. "Do I have time for a shower?" he called.

"If you must," Sherlock shouted back, his tone as sarcastic as he could manage.

It did John's heart good to hear him acerbic and sarcastic. After the events of the past two weeks and with Moriarty and Sherlock's vulnerability he was afraid he had lost the childish part of Sherlock's personality. Part of him had been worried that Sherlock had broken for good, and that John was the reason. Already he had been given so much to worry over. Both of them had. John had to worry about Sherlock and his coping skills. While John had been mostly supported through his therapy at Asylum, Sherlock had taken none of the resources available to him and had coped on his own.

Through drugs and cutting, various ways of lashing out at his transport. Last night he had been on the verge of doing something, and instead he had allowed John to help him. While it had been amazing and nice and wonderful, John was certain that it would not be that easy the second time Sherlock needed help. Sherlock didn't trust John, didn't trust the fact that John trusted him, nor did he think that John deserved to help him for what he had done.

John had gotten quite the education on relationships through his time at Asylum and even more through the friends he had made in his months there. It was quite likely that they would steer him away from entering a relationship with Sherlock, he thought as he scrubbed himself quickly in the shower. As much as he would have loved to have taken the time for a wank, to hopefully head off any erections for at least some part of the rest of the day, Sherlock wasn't the patient sort and John wouldn't put it past him to barge into the bathroom if he took too long.

"John!" Sherlock shouted from downstairs. Cursing John finished washing himself off and stepped out of the tub, drying himself off as quickly as he could. His clothes slid on next, sticking in spots to his slightly damp skin.

"Hold on a bloody moment!" John grumbled back, pulling on his shoes and nearly tripping as he attempted to maneuver down the stairs at the same time. He stopped as Sherlock came into view, his eyes wide. Gone were the pyjama bottoms and the dressing gown and back were the tailored suits and sharply polished shoes.

"Really, John, must you stare so?" Sherlock scowled, although John could see him preen the slightest bit at John's obvious admiration.

"It's hard not to when you look like that," John pointed out. Spots of colour appeared high on Sherlock's cheeks as he grabbed his wool coat and pulled it on. "So where are we going?" he asked, shrugging on his own jacket.

"Barts," Sherlock said shortly, opening the door and heading down the stairs without waiting for John to follow. The doctor closed the door as he left and trotted after the much taller man, struggling to keep up.

"Isn't that a hospital?" John inquired mildly, fighting down the rising alarm he felt. Was Sherlock hurt? Was there something John was supposed to know about that was important?

"Yes," Sherlock answered absently, flagging down a taxi and getting in. John eyed the taxi suspiciously and then followed. He hoped that Sherlock had the money for the ride, for he certainly didn't. A hand settled a few centimetres away from John's hand, warm and comforting. "Mycroft," Sherlock said quietly, as if it explained everything.

"Mycroft?" John asked, experiencing the chronic feeling of being a half-step behind.

Sherlock's exasperated sigh made John hide a smile. "To continue my experiments, I need a supplier," he clarified, his voice unusually kind. "Mycroft, as much as I dislike the smug sod's meddling, has arranged a contact for me at the local hospital's morgue."

"And why do you need me here?" John shifted his hand closer to Sherlock, so his pinkie finger was gently nudging the taller man's thumb. It wasn't a pushy maneuver, but designed to comfort both men. Sherlock inhaled sharply at the contact, seeming for a long second that he was not certain how to respond.

Sherlock turned his head away from John, angling his face so that he was watching the buildings roll by. His chosen response, apparently, was silence. It wasn't what John had hoped for, but it was better than a sneer and a scathing retort. Instead Sherlock's hand inched closer until it was nearly on top of John's, and the doctor shifted so that he could twine their hands together. He was immensely proud of Sherlock for seeking the physical contact, even as a reassurance.

Yesterday's vulnerability had torn raw, jagged wounds open for both men, John assumed. His had not been nearly as bad as Sherlock's, already rough around the edges from Moriarty's interference. John was haunted by far less, mostly the ghost of his memories past and the way he had treated Sherlock. And then Sherlock had been dismissive and certain that, in a relationship, his job was solely to keep John happy so that, predictably, he would stay with him.

John wasn't certain what he had been expecting, but it wasn't that. His heart clenched as Sherlock's hand tightened on his. Carefully he stroked his thumb over the widest part of Sherlock's hand, trying to convey reassurance as best as he could. Sherlock didn't seem to react well to words. Maybe he would react to actions, deny them less and accept their inevitability. John could already tell it was going to be a slow process.

The taxi pulled to a stop, throwing both men out of their thoughts. Reluctantly John let go of Sherlock's hand, climbing out of the taxi only to hear the driver shouting at him, demanding payment. "Sherlock!" John huffed, watching the coat twirl as it disappeared into the doors to the hospital. Groaning John pulled out his wallet and threw a few bank notes at the driver before jogging to catch up with the berk that had left him, broke as he was, to pay.

"You weren't broke," Sherlock said as John caught up, amusement colouring his tone mingling with something John didn't recognise.

"Pretty close to it," John reminded him, thinking of the near-empty wallet. "You can't do that to people, Sherlock."

"Why not?" he asked absentmindedly, his gaze darting about as he seemed to be looking for a specific room.

"It's not polite."

"Your point?" He was even more distracted. John sighed, deciding to give up the line of conversation and nearly running into the taller man when he completely changed directions.

"Oi!" John protested.

"Do keep up." Sherlock flashed him his fake smile and continued down a hall. John frowned for several reasons, although they muddied together in his mind. They were headed to the morgue, and that was generally not a happy place. And that smile had absolutely no place on Sherlock's face. If John had been able to, he would have dragged Sherlock into a cupboard and kissed him senseless until the smile was not even a memory. It had been forced, like Sherlock thought he needed to have it on his face for John to think he was happy.

John was so distracted by this thoughts that he nearly ran into the swinging doors leading into the mortuary. He emerged on the other side to see Sherlock watching him a bit oddly, the mask he was wearing slipping the slightest amount into something resembling concern before his face smoothed out. Sherlock turned to the brown-haired woman who was fussing over the naked body on the autopsy table.

"Dr. Hooper?" Sherlock inquired, his voice deceptively mild. John shifted the slightest amount; there was something in Sherlock's voice he didn't like. It was too nice, too friendly, and had the hairs on the back of his neck standing up straight.

The woman looked up from the body and dropped the scalpel. It clanged loudly against the metal autopsy table as her mouth dropped open. John couldn't help but feel the slightest bit possessive and he took a small step towards - whatever Sherlock was. Sherlock was his, label or no, and John wasn't going to allow some pathologist to think otherwise. If the woman actually was a pathologist, anyway - she was rather young-looking. John wouldn't put her past 28 or 29.

"Yes?" she squeaked, clumsily reaching down and picking the instrument back up. She was more cautious this time in her movements, aware of her audience, although she seemed to be ignoring John nearly completely. He would have found it flattering, for Sherlock's sake, if he wasn't so busy being jealous. A few steps took him to Sherlock's side, arms crossed defiantly over his chest as he narrowed his eyes just a bit. Enough to (hopefully) come across as intimidating.

In doing so his elbow brushed Sherlock's side. Even through the wool coat he could feel Sherlock recoil from the touch, and his internal something-is-wrong meter jumped up a notch or three. Something was definitely wrong, and Sherlock wasn't saying anything about it. "Sherlock Holmes." The taller man inclined his head slightly, hands remaining in his pocket.

"Oh! You're the one - that - the thumbs…" she trailed off, blinking owlishly.

"Yes." Sherlock seemed amused now, the barest hint of a crinkle at the corner of his eyes. John forced back his own snort of amusement at the woman's apparent clumsiness, watching as she nearly tripped over her own feet before making it to a refrigerator on the side. From inside she pulled out two bags of dark, fluid-filled bags with the barest hint of flesh pressing against the sheer plastic. John's stomach rolled. "Ah, thank you." He flashed her the same fake smile that he had given John earlier and plucked the bags from her grasp, careful to avoid any actual physical contact. "Come along, John," Sherlock commanded. He turned around and strode out the door.

John smiled his own fake smile at the flustered woman and turned around and strode after Sherlock. His thigh twinged and he grimaced, rubbing it absently. Shaking his head to clear his mind, he forced himself to move faster and caught up with the long-limbed Sherlock. He barely made it into the taxi before it was moving. Opening his mouth, he caught sight of Sherlock's profile in the reflection of the window and shut it resolutely.

Tension was evident in every visible inch of Sherlock's frame. The corner of his mouth that John could see was stiff, and he was held so rigidly that John feared he would shatter just from the strain of maintaining his posture. Sherlock's eyes were closed tightly, his hands clenching the seat of the taxi, knuckles white. All John wanted to do was draw Sherlock close and hold him, but he knew it would not be received the way he wanted it to be.

He cleared his throat. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock gave him the same fake smile, a reassuring pat on the thigh, and then turned back to the window, his body immediately resuming its previous posture. John was not at all reassured. If anything, he was even more frightened for Sherlock's mental state. The taxi pulled up at a building John didn't recognise. This time, however, Sherlock threw a few notes at the cabbie before stepping out. He didn't wait for John to follow, but it was progress nonetheless.

They walked into the headquarters of New Scotland Yard, and John followed Sherlock into the office of one DI Greg Lestrade. "Sherlock!" the silver-haired man said, lifting his head from the pile of paperwork in front of him and offering Sherlock a tired smile. "Please, take a seat."

"This is Dr. John Watson, my colleague." Sherlock inclined his head the barest amount, indicating that they were to take a seat in front of the DI. Sherlock seemed to relax the slightest amount once he sat, and John reflected it, allowing some of the tension to seep from his shoulders and loosen his posture.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," the man said, extending a hand in John's direction. He shook it, smiling pleasantly. "You can call me Lestrade."

"I understand that you have some cases for me?" Sherlock cut in, his eyes focused in Lestrade's direction.

"Just cold ones to start with, mind you," Lestrade said. Wearily he reached down and lifted a box onto the desk, pushing it in Sherlock's direction. "Mycroft said he would have some books on criminal investigation and forensics sent to your place for you to study. Memorise those, I'll test you, and then we can talk about getting you on some fresh crime scenes."

"There are conditions." Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and John tensed the slightest amount at the skepticism in Sherlock's voice.

"Of course," Lestrade said, amicable. "You have to stay clean. Yeah, I know about your little problem. Your brother and I go way back." John's attention was drawn by Sherlock's snort and the way the DI tensed. "I'll ignore that. Dr. Watson, is it? You'll be in charge of collecting the UAs and delivering them to the testing facility."

"Isn't this outside of your division, Detective Inspector?" Sherlock snarled, the fury practically radiating from his skin. Greg's smile was sharp and cruel at points, and even John cringed.

"I'm doing you a favor letting you onto these scenes, Sherlock. Don't forget that. It's only thanks to your brother that I'm able to do what I'm doing. I can pull the privilege at any point in time. I'm not asking much," Lestrade said, his voice digging holes into John's chest. He could only imagine what Sherlock was thinking, what he was feeling.

Sherlock opened his mouth and John stood, hurriedly bumping into his chair and disrupting whatever he had been intending to say. "Thanks, DI Lestrade," John said rapidly, trying to guide Sherlock to the door without touching him. He grabbed the box from the table and used that to herd the protesting man. "We'll be in touch."

Greg's smile was hard and dismissive and John ushered Sherlock back outside. "What was that for?" Sherlock demanded. John stopped and stared, his heart sinking. Sherlock was still angry, still furious, except this time it was at John. John was the convenient outlet, something Sherlock could vent at without fear of retribution. Or was it considering venting if Sherlock truly did not understand?

"Sherlock," John said, patient. "You were about to say something a bit not good."

"How do you know?" Sherlock sneered, pacing about two metres before stopping and returning back to John's side. His gaze kept flickering in John's direction and towards the street, resolving once he flagged a taxi and got in. John sat the box of papers down next to Sherlock and went to sit down. He was stopped by a flat, wide hand on his side. "Take the next one, by yourself," Sherlock said coolly.

Dumbfounded John watched as the door to the taxi shut in his face and drove off. He even heard the cabbie protest faintly, overruled by Sherlock's sharp tongue and even sharper demeanor. Numbly he pulled out his wallet, investigating the remainders of its contents in hope that he would have enough for a taxi home. Home that was, suddenly, feeling far less like one and more like a dungeon.

Yesterday had been so promising, John mused. His evaluation of the wallet had revealed that, at a minimum, he would need to walk at least twenty minutes before he would have enough to pay for a taxi the rest of the way back. Shoving his hands into his pocket, wallet clutched in one broad palm, he strode off in the right direction.

He made it no more than a hundred feet before a smooth, unmarked black car slid up next to him. John groaned as the window rolled down, revealing Sherlock's older brother sitting inside. "We need to talk," was all Mycroft said. Shame ran hot and heavy through John's veins, the memory of their last meeting playing unbidden through his mind. John saying what he had, and basically abandoning Sherlock after - John didn't even know the details of what had happened, but he had left a vulnerable Sherlock behind and Mycroft was probably coming to have him drawn and quartered or something equally drastic.

Mind churning, John reluctantly got into the black car, careful to sit as far away from Mycroft as he could. He hunched down, unconsciously mirroring the troubled thoughts in his mind as he stared at his shoes. "Sherlock left you behind?" Mycroft inquired mildly, his voice light and nonjudgmental.

"If you're going to kill me, can you at least make sure Sherlock is safe first?" John asked wearily. "I don't know where he went."

"Likely back to Baker Street." Mycroft pulled a sleek mobile out of his pocket and tapped a few buttons, an unusually delicate motion that seemed to suit his hidden grace. "I am not going to kill you, John."

"Well, that's a relief," John muttered, his hands on his head and elbows balanced on his knees. He wasn't totally certain if that had been a sarcastic comment or not. The boundaries between reality and fantasy seemed to be blurring as the car continued on its way. "Where are we going?"

"For a drive." Mycroft inclined his head slightly, a movement John caught out of the corner of his eyes. So it was a pointless question, then. He was going to be there for as long as Mycroft wanted something. "Why did Sherlock leave you behind?"

"Aren't you smarter than he is?" John said peevishly. "Why don't you deduce it like he does?"

"Because I am under the impression that it is generally considered more polite to inquire such facts." The razor-sharp quality to Mycroft's voice left John feeling oddly scolded, like he was a child who had attempted to correct his betters. "If you would rather me deduce, I am more than up for the challenge."

"I don't even know what happened," John exploded, his hands leaving the cradle they had made for his head and gesturing in front of him. "He upsets this DI, who I've never met before but he seems to know, because he wants UAs from Sherlock and I'll have to be the chain of custody and then I told Sherlock to watch what he was saying because he got this look on his face that means nothing good and then - then he just stormed off."

"Ah," Mycroft murmured. "I see."

"That obviously means something to you," John pointed out after nearly a minute of silence had elapsed. "I would like an explanation here. Though I don't know if he'll even be home when I get there. If that's where I'm going."

"He will be," Mycroft said absently, his hands crossed over the brolly in front of him, eyes focused on the empty seat opposite where he was sitting. "He'll be waiting, and guilty, and…" Mycroft trailed off suddenly. He leaned forward, somewhat invading John's space to knock officiously on the divider between the back and the front.

"Yes?" A crackly voice came from the small speaker not far from John's head. Mycroft pressed a small button, enabling him to be heard.

"221B. Fast," he demanded curtly.

Ice had replaced the shame that had previously rendered John warm. Something was wrong. "What's going on?"

"If we are lucky, nothing," Mycroft said with a grimace. "Unfortunately, with Sherlock, one rarely has that kind of luck."

The car lurched forward and John could feel it pick up speed. There was a tense silence for a long minute, one that John spent the time trying to figure out how to break without causing damage to either party. "Detective Inspector Lestrade and I go quite far back. I could have, of course, merely commanded him to work with Sherlock, but I have found in - certain matters, asking produces better results."

There was something to Mycroft's face that made John decide to not pursue that line of questioning further. He didn't want to know, and honestly felt it was none of his business. "His request for drug testing for Sherlock is not something he ran by me. He is aware of Sherlock's drug history, for a reason I do not care to disclose." Mycroft seemed to take a moment to compose himself. "While you were able to utilise Asylum's resources to their potential, my younger brother did nothing of the sort and still lingers behind in that sort of development."

"He's going to do something stupid," John realized, fear and anger settling into his chest, quickening his breath and bringing a flush to his cheeks. Mycroft's slight nod was all John needed and as soon as the car stopped he burst out, barely ensuring that he had everything he had arrived in the car with before he dashed up the stairs and threw the door open.

Sherlock was collapsed on the floor, the syringe still in his hand and the rubber band still about his thin upper arm, barely visible underneath the ragged cotton of his dressing gown. John's heart stuttered and stopped, time seeming suspended as his mind flashed back mere months to the fateful night Sherlock nearly died. His doctor side took over, logic rising to the surface, and he immediately noticed the steady, even breathing. Sherlock may have been on the ground and likely under the influence of something, but he was breathing regularly.

The next question was what to do with him until he woke up. There were many more questions after that one, but John was afraid if he took too much time to ponder them all that he would lose his resolve and leave. He doubted that Sherlock would survive if he left. A little, niggling part of his brain pointed out that Sherlock didn't seem to be doing so great with John still there. John ignored it, ignored Mycroft walking in the door as he lifted Sherlock up onto the sofa. He had been fond of the one at Asylum and John assumed that would carry over to the one in their new home.

Dragging the armchair over to the couch, but far enough away that Sherlock had some space and didn't feel cornered when he woke up, John settled into his spot for the night, determined to watch over his flatmate. "Heroin," Mycroft said quietly, breaking into John's thoughts. John took in a ragged breath, eyes clenching shut as he fought a flood of tears. While he had never done drugs himself, he had known a few University mates who had gone down that path at one point or another, and they spoke fondly of the tranquility of a heroin high.

"He was trying to blank everything out." John's words seemed to startle Mycroft, for he felt a change in the posture behind him. "I haven't, but I knew a couple blokes in University who did drugs."

Mycroft made some sort of noncommittal noise and moved into John's range of vision, standing behind the sofa and looking down at Sherlock with an uncharacteristic fondness in his eyes. John stared, unwillingly captivated. The range of emotions that an unguarded Mycroft showed were nearly overwhelming in their intensity. Fondness for his brother mingled with a deeper hurt, pain vivid in the ice-blue orbs. There was a sharpness in their depths, an assessing gaze as he swept his focus up and down his brother, assessing for non-visible hurts. "He's so young," Mycroft murmured. John chose to stay silent, for it sounded like Mycroft was more talking to himself than to the doctor.

He seemed to realize he had strayed and John watched an icy mask descend onto his features. "Watch over him." With that final order Mycroft turned around and left John perched on the armchair, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee as he sat his vigil. The worst part about the soft click echoing around the room as Mycroft left was that it seemed to give John's mind permission to tumble the last few steps into complete chaos.

Thoughts whirled around, no order, no direction, just disorder. God, what had he been thinking, agreeing to this? They were wrong for each other, like two jagged, discordant puzzle pieces trying to fit together. Sherlock was delusional, thinking he needed John, and John was just as bad, thinking he could be good for Sherlock. Ghosts of his past floated by, adding to his distress, words like 'stupid', 'foolish', 'reckless', 'worthless', all fighting to integrate themselves into his mindset.

He was conflicted, felt torn between two options. Desperately he wished Sherlock was awake. Sherlock would be able to make sense of what was going on, and make things better. Immediately he realized how foolish of a thought that was, how Sherlock could barely make himself better, much less someone else. John's heart ached and he felt a single tear slide its way down his cheek. Sherlock was so fragile and it was John's duty to protect him. But how did you protect someone who did not want to be protected?

Sherlock pretended to be strong, and had only shown his vulnerability to John a few times. The doctor replayed the scene at the police yard over and over in his head, trying to discover the trigger that had provoked Sherlock's behavior. Had something been growing all day? Sherlock's fake smile from earlier at Barts rose unbidden, and John's hands, clasped in his lap, tightened so fiercely around each other that his knuckles were white and his nails were digging crescents into soft flesh.

It was his fault, somehow. Everything was always his fault. "It's not your fault." Sherlock's soft, languid voice startled John, and he jerked in the chair, arms flying to the sides and digging into the fabric.

"You're - you're awake?" he asked dumbly.

"Mm," Sherlock hummed, his eyes fluttering open and a soft smile curving his lips. John, for a moment, thought the smile was directed at him, a happiness at seeing him there. Then he noticed the small pinprick pupils and his heart sank. Sherlock was high as a kite, lost in the warm, comfortable feeling of heroin intoxication.

"How did - what - why did you say that?" John fought to restore his mind to working order, tried to sound far less confused than he was. His mind whirled with questions, the first instinct being to demand from Sherlock exactly what he was thinking when he took the drugs.

"It's kind of your fault," Sherlock amended lazily. "If you weren't you, then you wouldn't be you, and you being you is the proximal cause for my current situation."

"How helpful," John muttered scathingly. His hands returned to his forehead, fingertips rubbing soft circles on his temple. "You're even more cryptic when you're high. Fantastic." Fingers closed about his forearm, a thumb stroking slowly up and down. A slight crease formed on Sherlock's forehead before quickly smoothing out. John hesitated and didn't move, watching the play of muscles twitch in Sherlock's face as he moved through several different emotions in rapid succession before settling into a blissful state. While heroin blanked you out, John did remember hearing something about a lack of inhibitions as a side effect.

"Your skin is soft." Sherlock's eyes were open, focused on where the long, pale fingers were against John's perceptibly darker skin.

"Thank you. Sherlock, why are you touching me?" Immediately the hand dropped away and John cursed inwardly for ruining the moment. Then again, he mused ruefully, it wasn't really a moment if Sherlock was too high to remember it.

"It doesn't overwhelm me, like this." Sherlock trailed his fingertips up John's forearm towards the crook of his elbow, shifting on the sofa so he could reach farther. "I can touch you and it just feels warm. It doesn't burn. It's comfortable."

"Does it normally feel like you're burning when you touch me?" John inquired, careful to keep his voice quiet.

"No," Sherlock mused. "Overwhelming. It feels - like Moriarty, like a loss of control. You touch me and everything spirals out of control."

John was filing away all of this information. It felt dirty, in a way, dishonest, to pry information out of his drugged flatmate. But he didn't have a choice. "Why did you shut me out of the taxi?"

Sherlock hummed slowly, extending the syllable for several seconds. He seemed to lose his train of thought and fell silent instead. John watched him breathe, comforted by the rise and fall of his chest, yet still unnerved by the events of the day. A long hand slid out and gently grasped John's, twining the fingers together without an ounce of self-consciousness and leaving the hands on the solid warmth of John's thigh.

John felt Sherlock stroke his thumb over John's hand, a whisper of a caress that he had felt a few times before. Somehow it made it special, something new that he had never experienced. He could feel his stomach twist into knots, like a schoolboy with his first crush. Sherlock's breathing slowly evened out and the motion stopped. Sherlock had fallen asleep. John looked down at their linked hands, uncertain, but did not break their connection. He made himself comfortable in his chair, as comfortable as he could be, suddenly tired.

Sherlock, as a person, was so tenuous, so fragile; as breakable as the connection slowly growing between them. John could not deny its existence despite the fact that taking care of it, helping it grow, would likely be the most difficult task he would face in his lifetime. Was it worth it? John had an idea that the question would be one he would repeat often throughout his time with Sherlock.

There would be many questions. Some he would get answers to. John would be careful, more modulated in how he came into contact with Sherlock. Any and everything to ease the other man's discomfort. Some questions, he suspected, he would never get an answer to. Sherlock was a man with many facets, and some he shared with no one. John had seen more than others, had seen some of the vulnerable, emotional sides that Sherlock rarely showed. He was not delusional enough to think that Sherlock would share everything with him. Maybe someday, but that day was a long way in coming.

John would be there. It was a decision, he thought ruefully, that had been made long ago. No matter what, Sherlock needed him and, he reluctantly admitted, he needed Sherlock. He lifted the twined hands and pressed the gentlest of kisses upon Sherlock's knuckles, more for his reassurance than Sherlock's. Closing his eyes, John settled down to wait until Sherlock woke up. He doubted it would be long.

When John woke up, he felt oddly alone. The hand that had been linked with Sherlock's was instead resting by itself on his thigh, unaccompanied. He stirred, blinking the fuzziness out of his vision and looked around. The first thing he noted was that he was covered by a blanket that had not been there prior. The second was that Sherlock was no longer on the sofa. Instead he was perched on a chair in front of the table, his eyes glued to the microscope in front of him.

There was something different this time, however. Where before his movements had been strong and graceful, this time his hands shook as he adjusted the stage's height and a few drops of the pipette's contents landed on the table while he was attempting to transfer them. His head lifted the slightest amount and his eyes flickered over to where John was sitting, the chair angled to allow Sherlock unblocked access to where John was sleeping. The movement had been practiced, and the slight widening of Sherlock's eyes was enough to convince John that Sherlock had not noticed that he was awake until that moment.

"Hi," he said finally, uncertain what to say. Sherlock tore his gaze away from the doctor and back down to the equipment in front of him, although his lips turned into a sneer. John had the oddest feeling that the sneer was not directed towards him, but instead towards Sherlock himself. Pushing himself up into a sitting position that put less of a strain on his back, he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, pleased when there was no lingering visual distractions. "How long have you been awake?"

Sherlock shrugged dismissively, then winced at the movement. John ran through the list of symptoms of heroin withdrawal in his mind and brought a few things together. Sherlock was sore, then, thus the wincing, and the shakes were likely because he had been sitting in the same place for too long. Nausea was another possibility, as was pain from the stomach cramps. If Sherlock had gone into withdrawal, then John had been asleep for quite some time.

"Do we have a thermometer?" he mused out loud, clumsily rising to his feet and working his way towards the kitchen. He wasn't limping bad enough to require assistance, but there was a hitch to his step that bothered him. John had thought the limp had faded completely, but it seemed not to be the case. Quietly he rummaged through various drawers until he discovered what he was looking for. Next was the hard part - getting Sherlock to put up with it.

"No," Sherlock said flatly, not looking up. John walked closer anyway, the thermometer clutched in his hand. He froze immediately when he saw Sherlock tense as he came closer. Instead John chose to settle in a chair next to Sherlock's microscope, ignoring the various beakers in front of him.

"I just want to make sure you're not feverish and that the shakes have a different cause," John replied patiently. He was proud of his coherency; it meant his brain was doing something correctly.

"And I said no."

"Sherlock," John growled, and then stopped when he saw Sherlock's flinch. Fuck. He had forgotten. "Please, Sherlock. I need to make sure you're okay."

"Why?" Sherlock had stopped fiddling with the lab equipment, although he had not raised his head in John's direction and chose to stare at the table instead. "I've disappointed you. Why are you still here? Why did you stay?"

"Because I don't have a choice," John said gently. Sherlock's snort was legendary, and John half regretted the inability to record it for later posterity. "Sherlock, you said you needed me. I need you like you need me."

"I was obviously incorrect." Pointedly avoiding John, Sherlock stood and walked over to the sofa, throwing himself down on it and curling up in a ball. He looked miserable from the back, sweat making his curls cling damply to his head, body hunched into its curved posture, likely trying to stave off pain and protect himself from acquiring any new.

Quietly John moved around the kitchen, pulling down two mugs and some tea bags. The kettle was flipped on and water was boiled, then poured into the two mugs to steep the tea to the desired level. While the tea was finishing John went and got some towels, ripping them into strips and placing them in some cold water. He could place one on Sherlock's forehead to help cool him down. Provided it didn't get ripped off and thrown at him.

After he tossed the used tea bags into the rubbish bin, he walked over to the sofa and gently placed a mug on the table nearest Sherlock. Setting his down on the end closest to the armchair next to the sofa, he returned to the kitchen and gently picked up one of the now-sodden strips of cloth. The problem was that Sherlock was on his side, but John would do what he could. As carefully as he was able, John lifted up some of Sherlock's curls and placed the wet rag on Sherlock's neck.

His forehead would have been better, but it would have been easy for Sherlock to rip the cloth off with very little effort. This way, Sherlock had to at least try. John had been careful to have as little contact with Sherlock's bare skin as was possible, aware of the difficulties that Sherlock had mentioned in his drugged state. Then he settled in the armchair, his mug of tea on his lap, sock-clad feet propped on the edges of the coffee table in front of him as he waited to see who would crack the silence.

Sherlock's dressing gown had been drawn so closely around him that John could see the muscles of his back and arms twitch and spasm as they sought to find the equilibrium that had been zapped from his body by the drug. It was painful for John to contemplate exactly how long he had been under the influence, and how often prior he had used it. The withdrawal symptoms were rarely that bad in someone who was using it for the first time.

"You did disappoint me, a bit. But that wasn't what I was thinking when I came in and saw you on the floor, you know." John's voice was quiet, cautious. He was afraid of setting Sherlock off. He was more afraid of saying nothing and having Sherlock disappear into himself forever. It was better to risk it. "I saw you on the floor, and - god, Sherlock. My heart stopped. All I could think of - all I could think of was when you overdosed." He shook his head slightly. Sherlock had gone completely still, although he could not stifle all of his body's aches and twitches.

"I need you, Sherlock. When you came to my house - well, Harry's house - you said you needed me. You were open and scared and vulnerable and you were the best thing that had ever happened to me. I don't deserve you. Yeah, you're a bit rough around the edges, but we all are, in our own ways." The words were tumbling out of his mouth now, and John was only half-aware of what he was saying. He hoped it made sense and that it wasn't going to make things worse. "I care about you, Sherlock. We never did finish the conversation about whether or not we're in a relationship, but I want to be with you. I want to see you smile and laugh and - well, okay, laughing is a bit silly with you, but I like it when you relax, when you give that half-smile when you've done something particularly clever."

"I like all of that about you, you silly berk." John sighed slowly, trying to gather the last few threads of where he had been going. "Yeah, you stepped off and did something I was hoping you wouldn't. But you didn't run away. When I woke up, you were here. And you came here to take your drugs. You didn't go hide somewhere." He shifted in the chair, watching Sherlock's sharp inhalation of breath. "Sherlock, you're the most brilliant man I know. You're amazing and although you can be a bit dense sometimes, you put up with me and that says more than enough in my book."

"Sentiment," Sherlock muttered, and John could see the barest crinkling of his nose. He had not removed the cold cloth on his neck, nor had he thrown it at John, and he wasn't saying anything bad.

"Yeah. Sentiment. That's kind of what a relationship is based off of. Look. You're mad at me because you think I'm mad at you, right?" John searched Sherlock's face and body language for any sign of agreement. He wasn't certain how much verbal encouragement Sherlock would give. There. Sherlock's shoulders tensed, and John plunged forward. "I'm not mad at you. I just want to help you."

Sherlock mumbled something that John didn't catch. "What was that?" he asked quietly, gently. Sherlock mumbled it again and John waited patiently.

"I can't give you what you want." Sherlock's voice was scathing, directed inward instead of outward.

"Are you sure about that?" John asked, an idea coming into his mind. "What do you think I want?"

"I can't even touch you without my bloody transport thinking you are someone you are not! How can you possibly be content with something like that?" Sherlock snarled at the back of the sofa.

"Here. Can I help you sit up?" John's hands hovered cautiously over his flatmate, gentle in their urging. He removed the cool cloth from Sherlock's neck and tossed it back into the kitchen, not caring where it landed. John turned back in time to see a corner of Sherlock's lips quirk up in the faintest hint of amusement. "Yeah, I know. You're the only one allowed to treat the kitchen like that," he said playfully.

"I am quite a bad influence," Sherlock admitted, his tone no longer the defeated snarl it had been. Still dark, but there was a lighter undertone. He allowed John to help him sit up, settling near the edge of sofa.

"Now," John said, figuring out how what he wanted would work out. It was times like these that he quite despaired the height disparity between the two. Trying to work around Sherlock feeling caged in close proximities was a difficulty as well. Ignoring the black look Sherlock sent him, John sat on the arm of the sofa closest to his flatmate. There was enough space to not startle him, and the sofa didn't creak too alarmingly underneath John's weight. Mycroft had picked a sturdy one, then. Probably the best for his younger brother, after all.

"I want you to keep your eyes open, yeah?" John's voice was soft, his eyes latched onto Sherlock's. Despite what the taller man had said, his pupils had started to dilate and his breathing had sped up. John was rather close, after all, and he could feel his body respond. "We're going to try this once again." He could see Sherlock's confusion for a brief second and then the startlingly clear eyes flickered down to John's lips, clearly having deduced his intentions.

John hesitated briefly, keeping his eyes open as he leaned forward, checking Sherlock's reaction before closing the space between them and pressing his lips to his flatmate's. His hands came to rest carefully on Sherlock's upper arms, and he could feel Sherlock tense underneath him, could feel him start to recoil. But Sherlock stopped himself, and John just kissed him gently, little brushes of mouth against mouth, sensual at the same time it was comforting.

Then he felt something change, felt a hand on his thigh and one on the other side of him as Sherlock pressed himself up, matching John in the kiss. Lips parted and John's tongue was granted access to Sherlock's mouth as the taller man took his hand off of John's thigh and wrapped it around his head. John's eyes fluttered shut, and he forced them back open. The intensity of the eye contact left him dazed, like fireworks had exploded in his head. Sherlock's pupils were so wide that he had eliminated nearly all of the colour.

John was pushed off of the sofa and against the wall, never breaking eye contact nor removing his mouth from his flatmate's. Tongues fought for dominance, the kiss hard and gentle in turns. John's mind spun, and he was certain that he had never been kissed with that amount of skill before. He could barely think. Sherlock's hand cradled John's head, fingers twining into the soft hair near his neck to tug him slightly so that Sherlock could have better access.

John could feel an erection pressed against him, matching the one growing in his trousers, and he knew things had gone too far. No matter what he wanted, Sherlock needed to go slow. He couldn't risk going too fast and having the curly-haired man break like fragile china. Gasping he pulled away, shaking his head when Sherlock attempted to reconnect their mouths and ignoring the growl. "Stop," he breathed, hands balling into fists. "Stop, Sherlock."

Sherlock pulled back, his mouth red and slick from the searing kisses. He seemed affronted, and John sighed. Of course Sherlock would take it as a personal affront, take it as John not wanting him instead of the real reason. John took a few moments to think about what he wanted to say. That was the far better option with Sherlock than just saying the first thing that came to his mind. "I want it to be good for you. So we have to take it slow. I don't - I don't want to go too fast and end up with something going wrong and me hurting you." Sherlock made a disparaging noise.

"I'm not a fragile flower, John," he muttered.

"You do a good impression at times," John said softly, trying to convey the depth of his meaning with his eyes. There was little he would like more than to just snog the man into oblivion, but what they had shared had gone long past what he had planned. Inwardly he winced; wrong train of thought if he wanted to calm his erection. Sherlock snorted. "Hey, none of that." Carefully he stepped forward, telegraphing his motions before continuing them out. He drew Sherlock into his arms, feeling the man tense briefly and then allow a reluctant calm to settle him against John.

"Thank you," Sherlock said finally, the words sounding clumsy and long-unused on his tongue. John blinked, startled, and felt a cautious arm wrap about his hips. He had expected tolerance, not reciprocation, but there the arm was, warm and snug against his lower back.

"For what?" John prompted. Normally he would be kissing more, or touching, or something else, but he felt he had pushed his luck far enough for the day.

Sherlock was quiet for so long that John feared he had ignored the question. "For being you." Hesitantly he leaned down and gently kissed John's forehead. "I need to think. Please stay here."

"Stay here? Like in this spot?" Because if John had to stay where he was for the next however long Sherlock had to think, Sherlock was going to be disappointed. Then John's mind caught up. "Please and thank you from you in the same day? Have you been practicing?" That earned him a black look, which was well worth it, and John smiled in response.

"Just stay here." Sherlock gestured to the living room. "In 221B."

"Alright," John said agreeably. Sherlock offered a small, hesitant smile and disappeared into his bedroom, leaving the door cracked. Not in invitation, John was certain, but so he could see John in the living area and moving about the flat. John shifted his armchair discretely so that it was easy to see from the sliver of the doorway and then grabbed his book and settled down. Sherlock needed space, and time to think, and John was going to give him all he needed. It was worth it, after all.


End file.
